Here in the lollipop's head, two roads branched off like bug antenna, one to the left, one right, curving away behind the end buildings, probably feeding to the car parks at the rear of the buildings. He had not been given the name of a business or any instructions whatsoever. So he stopped his car against the kerb. He could hear the roundabout traffic just beyond a high wall of bright orange brick.
He exited the car, aware that anyone who could see him would instantly become suspicious because he was dressed as a biker. But he left his helmet on, although he raised the visor. He leaned against the car and stared down the road, towards the gate, thinking.
He got so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the cars that slipped into sight either side of him along the bug antennae. By the time he was aware, each had stopped at the edge of the lollipop, as if fearful of entering. Blue Volkswagen Passats a year off the production line.
That was when he saw another car cross the bridge and come towards him along the main road. It was big, some kind of Toyota pickup truck. The road was wide enough for two cars, but the vehicle rode down the middle, over the white lines, veering only when it needed to pass some sleek Mercedes or Porsche. No room for another car to pass by it.
Three cars, each one blocking one of three exits off the lollipop.
Trapped. He was just metres from civilisation, but they could kill him right here and he might not be found until Monday morning.
The Toyota stopped at an angle at the end of the road, blocking it. There was space to mount the kerb either side and race past, if he chose to do so. But the position of the truck was a sign, a signal. It said, we're in charge and you'll leave when we say.
Men exited the Passats. There was nobody in the back of the vehicles, just a driver and a passenger. Four men in suits, all big, all with shaved heads. Their suits looked awkward, as if they'd pulled them off a shelf and weren't really sure how a suit should hang off a body. They didn't look like men who were used to wearing suits. Jimmy recalled that Victor Hartbauer owned a nightclub as well as Dalisay Foods, so maybe these guys were doormen from that place. Here for back-up. Here to present an image. Cash in hand for a spot of overtime.
The guy driving the Toyota was smaller, slimmer, and his suit was tailored. He didn't look tough in any way, so this guy concerned Jimmy the most. He struck as someone who didn't need to project an image.
The men pulled guns and held them low, mid-way between a direct threat and a message to Jimmy that he shouldn't try anything. Then the Toyota's passenger emerged.
Jimmy had seen a photo of this guy taken at some charity fundraising event held at Hartbauer's nightclub. He recognised the Export Manager immediately.
Hartbauer emerged but stayed by the car, behind the open door, arms folded on the open window's frame, a casual look. Casual by appearance, but Jimmy knew this guy was just being careful. Thirty feet away was a killer called Chopper, so he wasn't taking chances.
The five others moved closer, into the lollipop, creating a semi-circle in front of Jimmy, like a football wall with Victor Hartbauer as the goal.
In Jimmy's hands were a spoon and an opened tin can. Slowly, Jimmy dipped the spoon in and extracted something and put it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Everybody watched that spoon rise and fall. Their eyes were cautious, their posture prepared for quick, decisive movement. They had been briefed about Chopper, surely, and they would have heard some of the rumours. He had heard them himself. He had killed a man with a chainsaw, he had strung people up on meat hooks by their eyes. He could kill in moments with any implement you put in his hand, maybe including spoons.
"So you got my money, Mr. Hartbauer?" he said. He tried to sound casual, as if he hadn't noticed the help the man had brought.
Hartbauer didn't look bothered by the fact that the man he knew as Chopper he knew his name.
"Why don't you take off that helmet, let us see the man behind the mask?"
"I have crossed eyes. It's embarrassing."
"But we're so curious."
Casual. He didn't like it. The men around him, casual also. Too casual. Maybe they had guns, but those guns were hidden away, a good one or two seconds from being out and aimed and able to do damage. And two seconds was a long time, or it should be for a guy like Hartbauer, who knew he stood before a seasoned killer.
Jimmy turned around, a full 360, staring over the walls surrounding the business park. He saw a number of trees poking high here and there, and tower blocks. And a couple of hundred metres away, just its top two floors visible off to his right, not blocked by the semi-circle of guys in front of him, a dark coloured drill tower. It would be in a fire station. Empty because there were no fire training exercises at the moment.
Jimmy faced forward again. He spooned more of the tinned substance through the gap in his helmet and chewed.
"So how about that helmet?" Hartbauer pressed.
"How about my money?"
"Tell me how you killed James Marsh."
"You saw the photo. I slit his throat."
"I would have preferred his head."
"I didn't have a bag."
Jimmy watched him. He seemed to be enjoying this game. There was a slight pause before each utterance, as if he was cycling through smart things to say. But suddenly he tired of the game. Now he barked an order to remove the helmet.
Jimmy didn't move.
"Stand back," Hartbauer ordered his men. They all stepped back a yard, uniformly, as if expecting this order.
"Last chance." Now Hartbauer had a phone in his hand, and Jimmy knew it for certain: the guy knew the truth. He tossed the tin over the heads of the men, and they turned to watch it clatter on the concrete a few feet from the Toyota. Then he reached up and removed his helmet. Hartbauer laughed.
"James Marsh. Without a slit throat, would you believe?"
"We just look alike."
"Don't make a move, Marsh," Hartbauer said. He nodded in the direction of the drill tower. "There's better men than you out there."
He turned to his right and put his hands up and stared at the drill tower, where he knew there was a man with a high-powered rifle and a scope all full of Jimmy. The men backed away again, this time without being told to do so, but again as if they knew the script.
"This could have been a big headache for me," Hartbauer said. "But in the end, I got the result I wanted, and the rest just makes for a funny story. The guy I pay to have killed turns out to be the hitman I paid to do it. Don't you want to know why, before our friend in the sky way off puts a bullet through your head?" Hartbauer came out from behind the door now and strode closer. He looked down, saw the discarded tin, and nudged it out of his way with a foot.
"I'm sure you have your reasons," Jimmy said. "Same as you have reasons for putting too much sugar in your coconut meat syrup." He spat a wad of whatever he'd been chewing onto the ground."
"Give him the phone," Hartbauer said. One of the guys stepped quickly forward and tossed a mobile to Jimmy, who caught it. He looked at the screen and saw that a call was connected. He knew what to expect when he put the phone to his ear.
"I wanted to take out your knees first," said a voice he recognised, high and shrill on speakerphone. "But the paymaster wants a clean kill, heart shot, less blood. They need to clean up afterwards."
"Sorry to disappoint, Einar. And sorry to disappoint twice, but Mr. Hartbauer's about to order you to stand down. You're not shooting anyone."
"Maybe I'll pretend I missed and get you in the throat, so you die slowly. So you'll have time to think about how you got that one wrong."
Jimmy glimpsed over at Hartbauer, who was staring down at the ground. Jimmy threw his arms wide, presenting a target. Even with the phone held two feet away, he heard Einar laughing.
"Goodbye, Marsh. I'll send you your wife and kid in a day or two."
And then the shout came: "STOP!" It made the goons jump. It made Jimmy smile at the tower, knowing Einar's scope would allow him to see it clear and obvious. The emo
tion behind the smile was false, though. Jimmy was nervous, scared, and aware that he was cutting this whole thing too close.
The next second, everyone was staring at Hartbauer. He had retrieved the discarded tin from the ground and was staring at it. He strode forward and pushed through his men, no fear now, and held out the can, just inches from Jimmy's face.
"You think you're fucking smart, do you?" he shouted.
"I do, yes," Jimmy said. He folded his arms and faced the fat man. "And now we do this on my terms."
***
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Dale lived above a pizza shop. Jimmy parked outside, across the road, and watched the crowd. The place was busy because there were three pubs on the street. The clientele was mostly young and dressed to the nines. There was a lot of flesh on show. He was reminded of his own clubbing days, but the nostalgia only served to hit home that he was getting old.
Dale's window was open and music thumped out. Jimmy watched but didn't see Dale at the window, except for when a hand reached out to close it. Seconds later the light went off. A minute after that, Dale came out of a small alleyway beside the shop and crossed the road towards Jimmy.
He thought he'd been spotted and was working on a lie when Dale veered away at the last moment and got into the old Nissan Almera parked in front. The silver car pulled away and Jimmy followed. He didn't think Dale would expect a tail, so he threw away caution and followed as closely as possible. Sometimes he fell when he got caught at red lights that Dale avoided, but mostly he stayed right behind the Nissan.
A mile out from where Dale eventually parked, Jimmy was already suspicious. But only when Dale parked in Athena Supermarket's car park, in a corner near the gated rear, where they took in deliveries, did he understand the truth. Dale got out and threw his jacket inside the car, and there he stood in his work uniform.
Jimmy had never gotten chance to officially boot him. With Jimmy's disappearance, nobody knew that Dale had been suspended. So here he was turning up for his night shift as if nothing had changed. How would Dale know his problem was erased unless he was part of this whole thing?
Jimmy knew for sure right then that he had been targeted for death because he was planning to have this fool fired.
The supermarket's rear was lit by spotlights, the loading bay door open, awaiting the Friday delivery. Fresh produce was delivered daily, frozen items periodically, but every Friday night came the ambient items, and Dale was part of the warehouse team that took the Friday delivery.
He slipped across to the building and along the side. There was a fire exit with a keypad and he typed in his code. This was the entrance the duty manager used to open the shop, since the shutter over the front door was powered by an internal switch. Jimmy moved inside and past a freestanding cardboard washing powder advert used to hide the ugly fire exit.
The supermarket was empty and dark, the only illumination coming from a scattering of emergency lights and the swing doors at the back that led to the warehouse. He moved down that way.
The warehouse was filled with industrial shelving created a maze he used to move unseen. He knew six people worked the warehouse shift. The delivery came at eleven, an hour after closing time. The six would unload from the truck, sort and stack the stock, and wheel it out in roll cages to fill the shelves. The shift was five hours, from half ten until half three in the morning. Jimmy hid and thought. His employees would not know what was going on in his life, so he could step out and demand to speak with Dale. He did not want to wait hours until the man left for home before confronting him.
But instead he hid and listened. Until the delivery came, the guys sat on plastic chairs and chatted. He saw some smoking near the open bay door, which angered him. He had warned them about that plenty of times. But he couldn't worry about that now, of course.
The truck came at eleven. He watched it back up to the dock. The driver shared a smoke with one of the guys before starting to unload the goods. He even helped himself to a can of lager from a long shelf of goods labelled WASTAGE.
The guys got to work. Dale was stacking tinned fruit and vegetables. He filled his rollcage and wheeled it away. Jimmy slipped ahead of him, out of the warehouse and into the supermarket aisles, where he planned to confront him.
His curiosity was tweaked when Dale dragged the rollcage away from the tinned aisle and towards the freezers. Strange, because there was no frozen food amongst the delivery. But he didn't reach them. Instead he stopped at the fire exit, opened it. From a corner where noodles were on display in a stand, he watched Dale lift a crate and leave the building with it.
Stealing? Jimmy watched out of the window as Dale crossed to his car and deposited the crate in the boot. He came back, grabbed another, and repeated the process. In all he made the journey nine times, on each occasion lifting the same kind of crate, the same product. By this time the other employees had dragged their cages into the shop and the lights had flickered on, but because none of the goods were frozen, nobody was nearby to see what Dale was doing. But he got more cautious and moved more quickly once the place was lit up.
Dale closed the door, replaced the cardboard stand, and lifted another crate. Same as the others. He carried it away to the tinned section and there cut it open and stacked the tins. Whatever that product was, Dale had just stolen a lot of it. When Dale went back to his rollcage, Jimmy rushed over to see what the product was. He knew he was in view of the other employees at this time, but their eyes were on the shelves they would stack or the rollcages they would stack from and no heads turned his way.
Coconut meat in syrup from the Philippines for the International Range. Each crate held twenty-four tins at 400 grams. Twenty four might sell in a week, but not two hundred and forty. Why had so many been ordered? And why was Dale trying to steal such a product?
Dale was returning, this time with his cage, so Jimmy slipped away, taking one of the tins with him. He rushed towards Customer Services and into the manager's office, just avoiding being spotted by a guy called Donaldson, an ex-con who was stacking cereal boxes just metres away.
The moment he was inside, he saw the window. It was small, square, and barred on the outside, the glass frosted and wired. If you didn't know better, you might look at that window from outside and think it led to a toilet - a secure one, of course. But someone had torn those bars right off and smashed that window since Jimmy had last been here, because this window was different.
Someone had broken in in Jimmy's absence. He looked to the desk, seeking an item that wasn't there.
Footsteps were coming closer. He moved behind a file cabinet near a corner and watched as Dale entered, carrying two sheets of coloured paper, one blue and one pink. Jimmy recognised them as delivery notes. Dale had his eyes on the computer the moment he strolled in and didn't see anything else in the room. Tunnel vision. He sat and wiggled the mouse, which woke the computer.
Jimmy leaned out and watched over Dale's shoulder as he accessed the Back Office System. He was inputting the delivery. Nothing unusual about that, except Jimmy hadn't been aware that a simple team member like Dale knew how to do it. Normally the notes got left on the desk for the manager to file the next morning.
It took just ninety seconds. Then Dale rose and left. He left the blue sheet but crumpled up the pink one and took it with him. Jimmy slipped over to the computer and opened the program again. He clicked on the latest delivery, tonight's.
The list of delivered goods was right there. No problem with that. And there near the bottom was:
DALISAY COCONUT MEAT (24X400G) X 10 one.
Dalisay. Victor Hartbauer's company. The man who had paid for Jimmy's death.
Apart from that part - and that was worrying - there seemed to be nothing untoward about the delivery. The driver had brought ten crates of coconut meat, and that was too many so Dale had rightly chosen to keep just one. There was a notation at the bottom about the return of nine crates, reason: erroneous order. One they could sell. But Jimmy r
emembered the pink sheet that Dale had carried. You filled one of those in when a purchase was made right off the truck. It happened sometimes if the driver had some unwanted returns and there was an item you hadn't ordered but fancied. But Dale had made no entry in the BUYS section, and he had gotten rid of the pink sheet. So Dale had unofficially purchased the other nine crates of coconut meat for some reason.
Jimmy rose and left the office. He went in search of a tin opener at the kitchen utensils shelf and quickly found one. Two guys saw him, pulled surprised faces, but said nothing. They got right back to work, because the boss had secretly showed up. Jimmy knelt on the floor and opened the tin, tipping the contents right onto the floor. Coconut meat slices and syrup spilled around his feet.
He stood and reached onto the shelf for a short knife. He tore it from its wrapping as he went in search of another aisle.
Dale was hoisting a crate of pineapple slices onto a shelf when Jimmy appeared beside him and put the knife to his neck. The crate fell and burst, spilling tins everywhere. He heard clapping and a face poked around the corner of the next aisle.
"Nice one, Dale," this guy said, then froze as he saw the scene.
"I don't pay you to laugh and joke, Billy," Jimmy said to this guy, and he disappeared. Jimmy grabbed Dale's shirt, kept the knife to his throat, told him to shut up when he started asking what was going on, and dragged him away.
They went through the fire exit and across the car park. They stopped at Dale's car.
"Open the boot," Jimmy ordered him, aware that faces had appeared at the windows, watching.
Dale, shaking with fear, pulled out his keys and stuck one in the boot. It took him time because he kept missing the lock due to shaking fingers. His fear was understandable. The last time he'd seen Jimmy, his boss had been wearing a shirt, sitting behind a desk, acting all hard because he wielded power with a pen. Now he had a knife and a badder attitude. Dale finally got the boot open. Jimmy forced him onto his front on the cold concrete and put a foot on his back.
"Stay or I'll cut you. What do you know about the break-in?" He stabbed his knife into one of the coconut meat tins in the boot, started cutting. He noticed that each of the tins had a small sticker on the lid, just a little yellow dot. He hadn't seen such a sticker on the tin he'd opened earlier.